Barry Tompkins: In remembrance of recently departed turkeys

Bay Area sportscaster Barry Tompkins sits in a restaurant on Monday, Aug. 22, 2011, in Fairfax, Calif. He began his career in San Francisco in 1965 and has worked for HBO and Fox Sports Net. He is known for his work as a boxing commentator, but has covered football and other sports. He lives nearby in Ross.
(IJ photo/Frankie Frost
Frankie Frost

I REALIZE I may be a couple of days late for this, but for all you turkeys out there who are reading this, my condolences for your loss.

I feel personally responsible this year because every year that I have been weaving this little yarn, I have taken the week before Thanksgiving to give a simple piece of advice to our turkey brothers and sisters: RUN ... RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

I simply forgot this year, and I am consumed in a sea of tears (and giblet gravy). I feel your suffering right down to my wishbone.

I guess I'm just a sucker for being the champion of the underdog — or the underbird in this case. If turkeys were koala bears I suspect we wouldn't be filling them with cornbread stuffing and proudly displaying them next to a bowl of candied yams. But alas, the lowly turkey cannot claim cute as one of its assets. In fact, the lowly turkey can't claim much as an asset. It is considered among the stupidest animals to tread the earth, and its primary competitor for dumbest of the dumb is a goldfish, which only treads water.

What it has is large breasts, strong legs and a wattle (see Dolly Parton). And even its large breasts are artificially enhanced (see People magazine). The turkey, in its wild form, is a rather sleek-looking bird that seems no more appealing as a Thanksgiving main course than a seagull. And, where its domestic big-breasted brethren cannot move quick enough to avoid the executioner's axe, the wild turkey can not only fly, it can get airborne like a helicopter without so much as a running start. Can the goldfish make that statement?

Here are some turkey facts if you believe in reincarnation and think there's any chance that you might come back as an entrée:

 If, when you are hatched, there's a red button on your tusch the only certainty in life is that you will have a nice tan when you are served.

 You will be one of 271 million of your breed born that year, and 219 million will wind up vying for attention with a can of gelatinous cranberry sauce.

 Your life expectancy will be 18 weeks so don't bother to TiVo the third season of "Homeland."

 You will be fed a high-protein diet, which will account for your ginormous breasts. The difficult part will be standing up.

 Good news: every Tom, Dick and Harry will admire your bosom — or at least every Tom. Bad news: Turkeys were found to be sexually ignorant when a scientific test of turkey sexuality discovered that males would try and mate with a 2-year-old dehydrated turkey head on a stick.

Bottom line: It's better to come back as a goldfish.

But, while we mourn the dearly departed, which this past Thursday sacrificed their lives so that we could eat leftovers the next day, let us also recognize the good fortune of two who were spared.

Every year since the Abraham Lincoln administration, the leader of the free world, in a magnanimous effort to salve the guilt of a nation has decreed by presidential order, the pardon of not one but two turkeys that hit the poultry version of the lottery. There, that ought to make you feel better. Two out of 219 million.

And lest we forget, it was Ben Franklin who was shouted down when he suggested the turkey as our national bird.

And thank goodness he was. Do you have any idea how much you have to baste an American bald eagle?